His: Tony: The Sabatini Family by Fiona Murphy (sneezy the snowman read aloud TXT) 📕

“Okay?”

“I can’t go. I need to be here—”

“No, you don’t. Go. You have done so much for me. I’m good. I can take it from here. I mean it.” I’m firm. I refuse to let her miss out on something because of me.

Another text comes through, and she sighs. “Okay. Okay, here’s the money for tomorrow. Tony’s man at the door will make sure you have it before you even get to Tony. Do not take the gun in there. There is a metal detector built into the entryway. I’ll be gone about a week tops. You can do this. It will take a few days minimum to get him to get comfortable with you, do not rush it. It’s the difference between you walking away or ending up dead.”

“Yes, you’ve warned me more than a dozen times today. I’ve got it.”

“Read those stories, seriously. Until you’re sore, keep at it.”

I blush all over again. “Yes, okay. Done.”

She hugs me so tight it’s hard to breathe for a moment. “I love you. Be careful.”

“Love you too. Thank you. For everything.”

“I want to tell you not to do it before I get back, but I don’t want you to lie to me. Be careful. You’re beautiful, strong, you deserve to walk away from this in one piece.” Her phone starts ringing. “I have to go.”

Once she’s gone, I pick up my phone and bring up the reading app she had shown me. I’m blushing at some of the covers alone. Read the day away and masturbate, talk about a plan. As I consider everything I learned today about Tony from Gertrude, I study the print of Water Lillies on the wall above the couch.

Woman with a Parasol is on the opposite wall behind the television that I never turn on. Both of the Monet prints were ones I’ve had forever. Summertime by Cassatt, is in my bedroom on one wall and one of the many haystacks by Monet is on another. There are several Renoir and Degas prints in the extra bedroom that’s basically storage. This two-flat is much smaller than the large house where I filled almost every room with a print of some kind.

Hearing Gertrude talk about Tony, made him...I don’t know, more real to me. A man who loved art as much as I did, an avid reader like I had once been. It was clear he was an escape artist, as my brother Jason called me for getting lost and escaping into books then later art. While I was reading, I was the brave, strong person in the book. There was a happy ending and the bad guy got it in the end. As I consider it, I can’t help wondering what would Tony Sabatini need to escape from?

***

Tony

“You’re telling me you think this is the best place to take the hit down?” I frown at how fucking open it is. There is no damn cover. The street is clean and busy even at almost ten-thirty at night on a Tuesday. Streetlights run all the way down the block. I’m in the backseat behind Vito who, as usual, is driving. Joseph is beside me, reading through the information on the hit.

“Yeah, he comes here for dinner then goes home from his second shift job. His wife has to be at work at five in the morning. She’s already in bed. He’s up for another two or three hours in front of the television, where he falls asleep most nights. It’s either here or at home. Getting him in the afternoon won’t work. He’s up at ten in the morning and doesn’t leave until right before his noon start time. He’s on the El, then takes the bus here, and walks the four blocks home.”

Considering my options, I let loose a curse.

“Boss, I’m telling you. I can take care of it. I’m good with it. There’s at least two cameras from here to his home. I don’t want you spotted on them. You’re too damn memorable. I know you prefer to be hands-on, but this is what I’m here for.”

I’m aware Vito and Joseph are often frustrated that after more than thirty years of them being with me, I remain hands-on.

It’s the way I was raised as a Sabatini. Our motto tattooed into our skin: It will be done. Leaving something to others, there was too much room for something to go wrong. In handling things ourselves, we could always guarantee we kept our word. If something went wrong, it started and ended with us.

“Take me to his place. What’s it look like outside? How hard is it to get into?”

Vito drives the short distance slowly. I eye the route for any nooks I could hide in. Nothing.

Joseph points it out. “His place is the blue two-flat. The lights stay off. His upstairs neighbor is quiet, a woman who keeps to herself. I wasn’t able to get her schedule. Last night after we got the order from Johnny, I drove by and her lights were out. They stayed off for the hour I sat here. With them off again, it’s likely she’s already asleep. It’s not hard to get into his place. The best way in is the backdoor. Simple jimmy of the lock, the wood is rotting away from the jam. No pets. The backdoor puts you in the kitchen and you pass their bedroom to get into the living room.”

Sounds good to me. “Park, Vito, up the street.” The black Cadillac Escalade we’re in will get attention in this neighborhood. While the area is in the middle of a rehab, and there are a few nicer cars—right now, the Escalade is memorable. Which is a bad thing.

Vito finds a spot halfway up the block between a ten-year-old red Camry and a shiny brand-new black Hyundai. Taking a deep breath, I consider my options. “Okay, let’s go over what Johnny gave us on this guy. Frank